Moving On
by MizJoely
Summary: Molly's ex-boyfriends form a mental chorus in Sherlock's mind palace, taunting him about how he's lost her before he ever worked up the courage to have her. Are they right, has Molly moved on? Only one sure way to find out!
1. Don't Listen To The Voices In Your Head

_pagedancer87 on tumblr said:_ _Prompt Request: Sherlock in his mind palace as Molly's ex-_ _boyfriends tell him about all the signs Molly might be losing interest resulting in paranoid/jealous!Lock and Sherlock going to great lengths to secure his pathologist's affection._

 _And I said: Sorry it's taken me so long with this prompt, but I've been struggling with it a bit and had to tweak it a bit before I was happy with it. My original idea was pretty dark – Sherlock was going to be the one behind the Moriarty broadcast, all so he could manipulate Molly into moving in with him – but I decided to go with something a bit less…extreme, lol. Hope you like it!_

 **Part 1 - Don't Listen to the Voices in Your Head**

 _She doesn't fawn over you as much as she used to. Or at all, actually._

 _She told Lestrade she'd moved on._

 _She wouldn't go on any more cases with you, and she turned you down for chips even though you know how much she loves them._

 _She slapped you silly for going on drugs even though it was only for a case._

 _She got engaged, for God's sake, how much more proof do you need?!_

The chorus of voices in his head was about to drive him mad, especially because he knew they were right, every single one of them. Dave the endocrinologist, Gary the stockbroker, what's-his-face the anesthesiologist, Tom the idiot…Even Jim Moriarty, whom she'd tried to claim hadn't been an _actual_ ex-boyfriend. Which was patently false, since Sherlock knew damn well that she'd had sex with him on that third and final date, even though he'd never called her on it. Of course, he could understand her reasoning; who wanted to be known as the ex-girlfriend of a psychopathic murderer?

He winced a bit as he heard his own voice join the chorus inside his mind palace: _For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all attempts at a future relationship, Molly._

Oh, yes, brilliant, that; why not just throw her into the arms of the nearest available male and have done with it? He shuddered at the thought, especially since the literal nearest available male had been John Watson. What a disaster _that_ would have been!

 _She's barely spoken to you since you were discharged from hospital._

Ah, the ever-helpful James Moriarty. Bastard never did know when to…

"…shut up," he muttered aloud.

"I haven't actually said anything, you twat."

Sherlock's eyes popped open and zeroed in on the speaker: John, of course. Loyal, resourceful, currently aggravated John. "Then you were thinking too loudly," Sherlock replied, letting his head fall onto the back of his chair and shutting his eyes.

"Sherlock, you asked me to come over because you said you needed to talk to me about something." John's voice was filled with the exaggerated patience that meant he'd actually reached the end of his. "I've been here for half an hour while you stared off into space and said absolutely nothing. If you just called me over to hand you your mobile or something idiotic like that, so help me I'll…"

"You'll what?" Sherlock cut him off irritably. "You'll leave? No you won't, you're too curious, you want to know why I actually _did_ ask you to come over."

"And that's because….?" John let his voice trail off suggestively.

Suddenly the chair was too confining; Sherlock bounced to his feet and began nervously (no, not nervously, he wasn't nervous, he was just…full of excess energy, that was all) pacing the sitting room. "Molly Hooper's not in love with me anymore," he blurted out, which was NOT what he'd planned to say at all, bugger it!

He risked a glance at John and saw him staring at him. "Okay," his friend said slowly. "And this is a problem…why? She's still your friend, right?"

"Yes, of course she is," Sherlock snapped, feeling his irritation rise at John's lack of understanding. For God's sake, the so-called 'fairer sex' was supposed to be the other man's area of expertise!

"So, what, you'd rather she was a blushing, stammering mess around you? You want her to go back to being someone you can walk all over?" John's temper was clearly rising. "Because if that's the case, Sherlock, then you're a bigger ass than I ever thought you were. That woman saved your life! Is this because she slapped you silly? Because you really, truly deserved it, and if you ask me, she should have slapped you again when you made that nasty crack about her engagement being over!"

Instead of being angry or giving John his patented 'don't be an idiot' look, Sherlock found himself staring at him in admiration. "John, you're a genius! Of course she's not in love with me any longer, why should she be when I've given her no clue that her feelings weren't entirely unreciprocated? When I've reverted to bad habits and allowed my glee at her finally dumping Meat Dagger to show instead of being sympathetic and understanding?" He smacked himself in the forehead while John continued to stare at him, apparently too befuddled by the flurry of words pouring from Sherlock's mouth to even try to think of stopping him. "Mycroft's right, I _am_ the stupid one, not that I'll ever tell him that – and don't you do it, either," he added, stopping his manic pacing and spinning round to point an accusing finger at John. Who continued to stare at him.

"Um, Sherlock," he said after a long moment, "did you just…are you saying you're…"

"In love with Molly Hooper? Yes, of course, I thought it was obvious," was Sherlock's impatient reply. He threw himself into his chair and steepled his fingers in front of his face, closing his eyes as he did so. "Now, the question is, what to do to make _her_ fall back in love with _me_." He cracked one eye open and glared at John. "Off you pop, you're definitely thinking too loudly for me to concentrate, and I'm sure Mary could use some help with little Tara."

He heard John huff as he levered himself out of his chair, listened to the sound of his footsteps as he crossed the flat and headed down the stairs, muttering under his breath and stomping unnecessarily to show his continued annoyance. Which, of course, Sherlock ignored. John wasn't the puzzle that needed solving right now, Molly was.

What could he do to make her fall back in love with him?

The obvious answer was to avoid doing the things that had made her fall out of love with him in the first place: no more drugs, no more fake engagements, even if the case was a 9. Or even a 10. Possibly she might let it slide if were an…no, no, don't go there, no excuses, he told himself sternly. No drugs, no fake engagements – unless the other party was fully aware of the situation.

Hmm, a fake engagement…perhaps he could convince Molly he needed her to act as his fake fiancée for a case? And then subtly show her how much she meant to him, how his feelings for her had undergone a profound change, let her know he loved her?

No, he decided reluctantly, that wouldn't work. She'd think he was just acting, that it was strictly for the case. And God help him if she ever found out that there _was_ no case; the slaps she'd delivered in the path lab would be nothing compared to the fury he'd unleash if she thought he was using her residual feelings for him against her!

So, no fake relationship as a stepping stone to a real relationship, then. What if he actually found someone tolerable enough to date, in an attempt to make her jealous, would that work? No, only if she was actually still in love with him. Which she clearly wasn't.

 _She's moved on, Sherlock, give it up. She's over you, she's finally wised up and realized she could never love a freak like you._

He scowled as the sneering voices of Molly's gaggle of ex-boyfriends rose up in his mind again. He should have deleted them from his memory years ago, long before they started popping up to offer their unwanted opinions.

Idiots, the lot of them, up to and including Jim Moriarty. If the man had half the brains he'd supposedly been gifted with, he'd never have let Molly go.

Sherlock supposed he should be grateful Moriarty hadn't taken it into his head to really try to romance her – or worse, seduce her over to the dark side. The thought of his sweet Molly corrupted by that madman, gleefully using her skills to wreak havoc on London was…

…actually, kind of sexy in a horrifying, so-glad-it-never-happened kind of way.

His eyes glazed over as an image of Molly, dressed in a skimpy black negligee and wielding a riding crop while he knelt in front of her, hand bound behind his back, rose up in front of his eyes. The things he'd never allowed Irene Adler to do to him (even during their brief liaison in Karachi) were things he could quite happily submit to if Molly Hooper were the one holding the whip.

"Focus," he snapped to himself, shaking his head to clear it of the enticing imagery his imagination had conjured up. He was supposed to be trying to figure out how to get Molly to fall back in love with him, not fantasize about what he'd have her do to him once he achieved that goal!

Hmm, fantasies, perhaps that was the key? Not his, naturally, but perhaps hers? Once upon a time she'd seemed to have a thing for his neck, and he'd caught her looking at his lips more than once. Obviously she was mainly attracted to him for his mind, but there was no point in ignoring the strong physical attraction they had for one another.

By morning he'd outlined what he thought would be a good plan of attack; he jumped in the shower, taking extra care while shaving and fussing with his hair more than usual. He selected his tightest aubergine button-up – even _Anderson_ couldn't miss the way Molly snuck admiring glances at his chest! – and a pair of snug-fitting black trousers.

Twenty minutes later he stepped smartly out the door and hailed a taxi, ready to do whatever it took to win Molly Hooper back.

* * *

 _Next up: Part 2 – Listen to Your Heart Instead_

 _All reviews gratefully and humbly appreciated!_


	2. Listen To Your Heart Instead

**Part 2 – Listen to Your Heart Instead**

Sherlock was acting strange, even for him. Like, really strange. Molly wasn't sure what was going on, but if he continued to shoot glowering looks at Greg Lestrade, she was going to drag him out of the lab by his ear and demand he explain himself. Poor Greg was also getting the sharper side of Sherlock's tongue as well as the dark looks, none of which was deserved. It wasn't his fault the corpse hadn't arrived yet; he'd been on his mobile for a good fifteen minutes trying to track it down, for heaven's sake!

Of course Sherlock was probably just put out because Greg hadn't called him here; the Detective Inspector had actually looked surprised when he showed up. Considering that Sherlock had looked just as surprised – and not at all happy – when he'd seen Greg, Molly guessed that he was upset that he wasn't being consulted on the case. But from what Greg had said, it wasn't something Sherlock would consider to be worth his time. Therefore he must be truly, colossally bored; he'd probably come to the morgue to try and wheedle some extra body parts out of her to experiment on (he'd already exceeded his quota for the month on allowed appendages!) and was ready to rip Greg a new one just for existing.

Sometimes Molly wondered why she put up with him – why anyone did, actually – and then she looked at his gorgeous face, his fit body in his beautifully tailored (and very, very tight) clothes, and his incredible mind (not that she could literally see it of course), and remembered: oh yes, she was hopelessly in love with him, and probably always would be. Yes, she wished he could reciprocate her feelings, of course she did, she wouldn't be human if she didn't, but at least they were friends now. Comfortable enough to tease one another now that all the hoo-hah had died down over Magnussen (honestly, killing him was more like exterminating a cockroach, she'd told Sherlock when he told her what had happened) and the Moriarty imposter (at least that had got Sherlock's a full pardon!).

The body finally arrived; while she showed it to the two of them (since Sherlock was here, he might as well give his input), she continued to observe and wonder at his twitchiness, for lack of a better word. Every time Greg leaned over her shoulder to see what she was pointing out, Sherlock would glower and clench his hands. But when he noticed Molly watching him, he'd forcibly relax and give her a falsely bright smile. Finally it dawned on her that he'd expected to get her alone – which must mean he had some favor to ask. Something outside the parameters of his allowed access. _Hope it's not help faking his death again_ , she thought with a grimace. Not that she'd turn him down if he needed such help, of course, but honestly, once was enough of that sort of thing!

"Yes, clearly it was the sister-in-law, if you check her flat you'll find the necessary components for the murder tucked somewhere she thinks is clever – in her child's toy box, the one she's packed up to take on holiday, or buried in the bottom of the cat's sand box ready for her to take to the bins," Sherlock said impatiently, cutting into Molly's musings. "Off you pop, Detective Inspector, no need to waste either I or Molly's valuable time just because your SOCO team is incompetent."

Molly raised an eyebrow; Sherlock certainly was in a strop today! He'd given over making such blanket insults against Lestrade's NSY team since his return from the dead; what on earth had set him off today? She was beginning to wonder if he actually did need her to help fake his death again. Lestrade was more annoyed than concerned, as was obvious by the way he was muttering to himself – and, of course, there was the two-fingered salute he 'favored' Sherlock with as he left the morgue.

Once he was safely out of earshot, Molly turned to Sherlock with a scowl, plopping her hands on her hips as she demanded, "What the hell was that all about?"

He scowled right back at her. "Why do you let him flirt with you like that? You do know he's in the process of reconciling with his wife again, don't you?"

Molly stared at him open-mouthed, completely flummoxed by his words. "W-what?" she finally managed to stutter out, silently cursing herself for falling back into old (bad) habits so easily. "He wasn't…we weren't…I don't flirt with him and he definitely doesn't flirt with me!"

"Does so," Sherlock shot back, sounding – and with his lower lip jutted out, definitely _looking_ – like a petulant toddler.

Okay, something was _definitely_ going on, but Molly was damned if she could figure it out. "Sherlock," she said, easing her tone into something a bit less aggressive – or defensive, "what's going on? Is there something wrong? Do you need me? My help, I mean?" she hastily corrected herself.

She'd seen his mouth open as if to correct her just as she corrected herself, but surely she had to be mistaken about the flash of – disappointment? – she thought she spotted in his eyes. Before she could do more than second-guess herself, however, he was talking. "Yes, need you, for, um a bit of a case – no, sorry, an experiment. At my flat later. Say…around six?"

It was two in the afternoon and she had two hours left to her shift. Meeting him at Baker Street at the appointed hour would give her plenty of time to take the tube home, scrub up, feed Toby, and then be on her way. "Right, fine – wait, which is it?" she interrupted herself to ask, feeling a bit more on solid ground seeing him so flustered. Even not knowing how, she somehow believed it was because of her, and if there was one thing she not-so-secretly delighted in these days, it was keeping a certain consulting detective on the back foot! She'd discovered how much fun it was the day he'd come to her for help with the calculations for John's stag night, and took every opportunity to do so.

"It's, erm, an experiment," he said, still not sounding entirely sure of himself. "For a case. To help determine the movements of the alleged murderer and her victim." The more he spoke, the more confident he became. "Yes, their movements are of paramount importance; we have to reenact them so I can decide if the fiancée is telling the truth. So." He took a deep breath and gave her a winning smile. "I take it I can count on you?"

"Sure," Molly agreed, although she still felt there was something off about this entire encounter. "Should I bring anything? Bottle of wine?" Some devil prompted her to add, "A couple of shots of whiskey to pour into your flask when you're not looking?"

The look he gave her was flatly unfriendly, and Molly bit back a grin. From what John had said in his blog, Sherlock was a belligerent drunk, and she honestly had no desire to see him that way. But it was so very, very fun to be able to take the piss with him now and again! "I have wine," he bit out. "And I'll have dinner brought in. Wear a dress, stockings – thigh highs – and some low heels. And," he added, giving her a thoughtful look, "wear your hair loose."

"Wait, what color dress?" Molly called after him as he turned on his heel and started to leave in that abrupt way of his. "Why thigh highs?"

"Any color is fine, but that navy one in the back of your closet is probably best," he threw over his shoulder, giving her a cheeky wink. "And thigh highs because…" The reason he was about to give, if any, was lost as the door swung shut behind him.

Molly considered trying to catch up to him and demand more of an explanation, but decided against it; her dignity would be entirely lost if she were to be seen running pell-mell down the hall after him, with his long legs and a stride more suited to a…a….giraffe, than a mere mortal like her (short-legged) self.

And wait just a moment; how had he known about that new blue dress? She'd not worn it yet, the tags were still on it from when she'd impulsively picked it up just three days ago. "Oh, he is so going to hear about this," she muttered, peeved that he'd once again been in her flat without her knowing about it.

Distracted and muttering to herself, she set about returning the body to its drawer; if she got everything finished up, including the paperwork, she could probably talk her supervisor into letting her leave a half-hour early; if she was going to be all dressed up for this experiment-case-whatever, she was going to need the extra time – and wasn't about to take the tube from her place to Baker Street!

 **oOo**

 _Smoothly done, Sherlock. That wasn't exactly the plan you'd come up with when you headed for the morgue though._

"Shut up, Meat Dagger," Sherlock muttered aloud in response to the sardonic voice in his head. Meat Dagger's voice, but surely Moriarty's words? Irrelevant; the point was that he'd got Molly to agree to a romantic dinner, and was congratulating himself on how he'd managed it when the Greek chorus of exes in his head started up again.

 _You sure you'll even know what to do with her once you get her there?_

Sherlock tensed, narrowed his eyes, but managed to keep his response internal this time. Think of the devil and he shall appear, was that how the saying went? _Yes,_ Dear Jim _, I'm not actually a virgin, you know._

 _Close enough,_ his inner Moriarty sneered. _A few experimental nights in uni and one rather memorable forty-eight hours in Karachi hardly make you an experienced lover. Not that Molly will just tumble into bed with you even if she_ does _still has feelings for you; she's bound to accuse you of, oh, all sorts of things. Tricking her – which incidentally you did. Lying to her – ooh, yes, one of her favorites! Using her…_ Mind-Moriarty tsked and shook his head in mock sympathy. _She's bound to think you've made HER the experiment, or that you're working yourself up to ask some ridiculous favor of her._

 _You're a fine one to talk,_ Sherlock scoffed, folding his arms around his chest and fidgeting in the back seat of the cab. _I might have flirted a bit with her to try and get more help from her than was officially required, but I never slept with her just to make her think I actually liked her!_

 _No, but you did get yourself almost engaged to another woman just to try to get into her bosses' office. Don't think that little trick won't come to Molly's mind when you have to admit that there is no case!_

That reminder shook Sherlock, almost enough to jolt him entirely out of his mind palace – but then the jeering male laughter in the back of his mind faded away as another door opened. Out stepped The Woman, Irene Adler, imperious and alluring as ever…and for once, fully – almost modestly – clothed. _Ignore them, Sherlock, they're just the voices of your insecurities and you know it,_ she said. _Just tell Molly how you feel. Anything else is unimportant…_ She glanced over her shoulder _…and should be deleted._

John Watson was next to put in an appearance, simply materializing next to her. _She's right, you idiot. No games, no manipulation…well, too late for that, but once she's in your flat? Just tell her the truth and let the chips fall where they may. And no,_ he added tartly, _you're not feeding her chips. Get a good meal sent up from Angelo's, and a good bottle of wine to go with it. If you're going to tell a woman what's in your heart, you need to show her you value her enough to spend both time and money on her. Got it?_

Sherlock considered John's words before sighing and nodding. _Got it._

With that, Sherlock's mind palace faded away, quiet and order at least temporarily restored. He could always count on John for good advice, and for once the distraction The Woman had provided had been a useful one.

He would get Molly to his flat, and he would tell her the truth.

"Easy peasy," he muttered with a sigh, ignoring the odd look the cabbie was giving him.

Sherlock ruffled his hair and stared out the window. He just _knew_ this was going to be one of the most difficult nights of his life.

* * *

 _A/N: Thanks everyone for all your encouragement!_


	3. Because Heart Trumps Head Every Time

_A/N: Final chapter in this little saga. Thanks for reading and reviewing and favoriting, you guys rock!_

* * *

 **Part 3 - Because Heart Trumps Head Every Time**

Molly regarded herself in the mirror; the dress fit perfectly, the flirty little cap sleeves fluttering a bit as she turned to get as good a look at her backside as she could. The color looked good, too, even though it was a darker, more somber shade than she usually wore. Her work was with the dead, which was why she opted to wear bright colors and cheerful patterns; save the dark clothes for the funeral parlour, had been her mentor's advice when she first started at St. Bart's, and she'd never stopped believing it.

But every woman needed a nice, dark solid-colored dress for a sophisticated look, and this one more than filled the bill. Perfect for a case – or whatever – with Mr. Tall-Dark-and-Moody himself, Sherlock Holmes. Who, now that she thought about it, had a suit in almost the exact same shade.

Molly frowned. "When was he in my flat looking through my closet?" she said aloud. "And why?"

She had no problem with him using her flat as a bolthole, even after the horrid Janine thing – and certainly it had come in handy during the faux-riarty case that had saved him from exile to eastern Europe! But now that things were back to normal, why on earth would he need to be there when she wasn't? "That man…I never will understand him," she said, this time speaking to her cat as he wound his way around her ankles and meowed at her. She leaned down and rubbed his head, then stood back up and headed for the kitchen. "Suppertime for you, then off I pop to Baker Street to see what this case-experiment thing is about, Toby." Her expression darkened as she added, "Whichever it turns out to be, Mr. Sherlock Holmes has some 'splaining to do!"

 **oOo**

He had no reason to be nervous, none at all. At least he kept telling himself that, both mentally and aloud when the jeering voices of Molly's exes threatened to drown out his attempts at self-reassurance. Finally he was forced to sit in his chair, steeple his fingers under his lips, and start an aggressive mental cleansing of his mind palace in order to stuff each and every one of them back into their various storage places. Later, when he had more time, he would do a thorough deletion of as many of them as he could manage – definitely the ones before Moriarty and Meat Dagger, but he wasn't entirely certain he could delete Molly's former fiancé without someday meeting her wrath for doing so. Of course, it was his mind and he could do as he bloody well liked, but the thought of Molly being upset with him for deleting someone that had been an important part of her life was not something he wanted to face. Ever.

By the time he'd gotten the lot of them under control and blinked his way back to full consciousness, he was immediately aware of two thing: the smell of something burning, and the sound of someone opening the oven door and coughing.

And that someone was _not_ Mrs. Hudson.

"Bugger!" Sherlock muttered as he jumped to his feet. Hurrying to the kitchen, he saw that yes, the roast he'd gone to such pains to prepare was utterly ruined, and yes, it was indeed Molly who was coughing and fanning the smoke away as she pulled the pan out using a folded dishtowel to protect her hand.

She was wearing the dress he'd recommended, just as he was wearing the suit that oh-so-coincidentally matched it in color, over a plain white dress shirt. He would look entirely sophisticated and well put together were it not for the fact that he was also barefoot. And of course, there was the ruined dinner.

So much for any of his plans working out today.

Molly set the pan carefully on the stovetop, leaving the oven door open and turning to leave the kitchen. Most likely to open the windows, Sherlock deduced, then hurried over to do it himself. And also to give himself time to think of something clever to say, something perhaps humorous and self-deprecating about the roast being an experiment, and Molly arriving exactly as he'd planned in order to see how she would react to a culinary disaster.

The words died in his throat as he turned to face her; she'd come up very close to him without him noticing, and he swallowed as she gazed up at him with those big brown eyes.

He needed to say something. He needed to say anything before she did. "Sod it," he muttered, reaching out to take her into his arms as he lowered his head and kissed her.

 **oOo**

So far nothing was going the way Molly had expected it to. Of course, no one ever expected to walk into someone's flat and find it filling with smoke from a burning roast, while the flat's occupant remained utterly oblivious to anything going on outside his own busy brain. And now said occupant had done something even more unexpected: he was kissing her. Oh, she was kissing him back, never doubt that, but once her own brain stopped reeling she and Mr. William Sherlock Scott Holmes were going to have a Very Serious Discussion about what said kiss meant, exactly.

And if the words 'case', 'experiment' or 'fake dating' came into play, she was fairly certain she was going to slap him harder than she had when he'd been using drugs. For a 'case' while 'fake dating' that Janine bimbo.

The kiss ended, as all kisses must, mostly for lack of air on the participants' parts. Molly stepped back, not enough for Sherlock to be forced to let her go, but enough to put a few inches between bodies that had been pressed very, very closely together. "Explain," was all she said.

He blushed. Oh dear lord, he actually blushed, a sight she'd never thought to see. Too bad her phone was in her handbag, which was still sitting on the kitchen table where she'd set it on her way to turning off the oven. Still, she'd carry the memory with her forever, as well as the memory of the kiss…but she still wanted her explanation.

Sherlock, it seemed, was having a difficult time coming up with one. "I," he said, then stopped, looking quite endearingly flustered. "Your ex-boyfriends," he finally blurted out.

Molly raised an eyebrow. "What about them?" she asked, gently tugging herself free of Sherlock's hold.

"They've been telling me, well taunting me, actually, about how I've lost you. Which," Sherlock added, whirling around and beginning to pace the sitting room frantically, "makes no sense, since I never 'had' you in the way they mean. So how could I have lost you? Especially when you're right here, you've never left."

"And I never will," Molly added as he came to a stop in front of her. She was smiling, her heart beating a bit faster as she realized what was happening. "My exes, you mean they're in your mind palace? You didn't delete them? Why not?"

"Because, Molly Hooper, I've recently discovered that I've never deleted anything about you whatsoever," Sherlock growled, stepping closer and resting his hands on her shoulders. "Not from our first meeting to our most recent encounter at St. Bart's. I've never deleted one conversation, one observation, one slap." It was her turn to blush a bit at the memory of those three slaps, but he'd deserved them and she as damned if she was going to apologize. Apparently he read that determination in her expression, because Sherlock grinned a bit and said, "No, I'm not expecting you to tell me you're sorry, I know you're not and you shouldn't be. I deserved them." He took a deep breath. "I deserve a lot of things, Molly, but you aren't one of them. I've never deserved you, but here you still are, after all these years, standing by me, doing almost anything I've ever asked of you…no longer engaged," he added softly, staring deeply into her eyes. "No dangerous cases hanging over my head, giving me an excuse to pretend I don't…that I haven't fallen…"

He fell, all right – he fell silent, practically begging her with his eyes to help him figure out the right words, but Molly was determined to let him come to her for once. So she simply looked up at him…but reached up and placed one hand over his, squeezing softly to encourage him.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock let it out in a near sigh and lowered his head so that his forehead rested against hers. "Molly Hooper, I never thought I'd say these words to anyone and sincerely mean them, but I…have managed to fall in love with you. My only question is, have I done so too late?"

His words hung in the air for only a moment before Molly answered. "Of course not, you daft man. I never stopped loving you, even when I'd convinced myself I had." Then, with a bit of laughter in her voice, she added, "Do feel free to kiss me again, Sherlock, I promise I don't bite."

Just before his lips landed gratefully on hers, she added in a low voice, "Unless you want me to."

His muffled groan as his lips met hers was music to her ears.

 _Don't listen to the voices in your head_

 _Listen to your heart instead_

 _Because heart trumps head every time_

 _And moving on from you would be a crime_


End file.
